could recall. She had a good memory—perhaps photographic, as
she would pause, gaze into space with those tiny puckers gathering her brow,
and then give a line of dialogue or describe an expression with certainty.
As she thought, Mariah Stavig seemed unaware that he was
watching her. He found his mind drifting more than it should from what she was
saying.
Light didn't play off her hair the way it normally would.
The texture wasn't sleek and smooth, but more … downy, he decided. Connor
imagined her hair loose, a fluffy, soft cloud like cotton candy, but less
sticky.
Or he'd contemplate her long, slender neck, bowed gracefully
when she gazed thoughtfully at her desktop. He liked her carriage, too; her
back was always elegantly straight, her shoulders squared, as though someone in
her childhood had impressed on her the importance of posture.
Mariah Stavig was a fairly tall woman, five-seven or -eight,
he guessed, but slender. She was small-breasted, but he wasn't a man who liked
more than a handful, anyway. Her fingers were long, her wrists narrow, her
legs… Well, with her sitting behind the desk, he couldn't see them, but once,
three years ago, when he had come to her house she'd been wearing jeans and
he'd seen despite himself how long her legs were. A man's fantasy, those legs.
Mariah would have been too tall to be a ballerina, but
that's what she made him think of. Delicacy and strength mixed together, grace
coupled with innocence and unconscious sexuality. That's what he saw when he
looked at her.
Which he had no damn business doing, he thought in
exasperation. Connor moved restlessly and the desk creaked beneath him. Mariah,
pulled from a momentary reverie, cast him a surprised glance with those catlike
eyes, as if she'd forgotten he was still there.
"So you mentioned the possibility of her having to
testify in court," he said gruffly. "And Tracy didn't like the
idea."
"No." Mariah's brow crinkled again. "It
obviously had never occurred to her that her complaint might go that far.
'Can't he just be fired?' she asked."
Mariah went on to tell him what she'd explained to the girl.
Connor tried hard to listen and get his mind above his belt.
What in hell was he thinking? Mariah Stavig hated him! He'd
broken up her marriage. She despised what he did for a living and was
cooperating now only reluctantly, because of a sense of duty and a knowledge of
the law. He hated to imagine how she'd react if she knew how intensely he was
aware of her.
"Okay," he said finally. "I'll be talking to
her again this evening. We'll see whether she's forgotten any of her story, or
decides to embellish it a little."
"Do you think she's lying?" Mariah asked.
"At the moment, I have no idea," Connor admitted.
"Has she, um, been examined by a doctor yet?" She
sounded timid. "I know it's probably not any of my business, but…"
"No, it's okay," he said. "Yeah, she had the
works. Looks like she did lose her virginity in the past few days. No bruising
or obvious signs that force was used. It was probably too long ago to recover
DNA, assuming a condom wasn't used."
"She was afraid of being pregnant."
"She's thirteen years old," he said bluntly.
"When I asked whether he might not have put on a condom before they had
intercourse, she stared at me with complete blankness. In theory she knows what
one is. Unless it was neon-green, I'm not convinced she'd have noticed if he
put one on quickly, with his back to her."
The distaste and even embarrassment on Mariah's face might
have been comical, under other circumstances. "She was probably trying not
to … look." She was being very careful to keep her gaze fixed on his face,
too.
A fact that stirred him uncomfortably.
Frowning, he said, "Exactly." Looking at the bank
of windows, he made himself think about Tracy Mitchell, not the prim teacher
behind the desk. "I need to start talking to kids. Hard to do without
lighting a bonfire of rumors."
"Impossible, I imagine." Mariah looked
she would pause, gaze into space with those tiny puckers gathering her brow,
and then give a line of dialogue or describe an expression with certainty.
As she thought, Mariah Stavig seemed unaware that he was
watching her. He found his mind drifting more than it should from what she was
saying.
Light didn't play off her hair the way it normally would.
The texture wasn't sleek and smooth, but more … downy, he decided. Connor
imagined her hair loose, a fluffy, soft cloud like cotton candy, but less
sticky.
Or he'd contemplate her long, slender neck, bowed gracefully
when she gazed thoughtfully at her desktop. He liked her carriage, too; her
back was always elegantly straight, her shoulders squared, as though someone in
her childhood had impressed on her the importance of posture.
Mariah Stavig was a fairly tall woman, five-seven or -eight,
he guessed, but slender. She was small-breasted, but he wasn't a man who liked
more than a handful, anyway. Her fingers were long, her wrists narrow, her
legs… Well, with her sitting behind the desk, he couldn't see them, but once,
three years ago, when he had come to her house she'd been wearing jeans and
he'd seen despite himself how long her legs were. A man's fantasy, those legs.
Mariah would have been too tall to be a ballerina, but
that's what she made him think of. Delicacy and strength mixed together, grace
coupled with innocence and unconscious sexuality. That's what he saw when he
looked at her.
Which he had no damn business doing, he thought in
exasperation. Connor moved restlessly and the desk creaked beneath him. Mariah,
pulled from a momentary reverie, cast him a surprised glance with those catlike
eyes, as if she'd forgotten he was still there.
"So you mentioned the possibility of her having to
testify in court," he said gruffly. "And Tracy didn't like the
idea."
"No." Mariah's brow crinkled again. "It
obviously had never occurred to her that her complaint might go that far.
'Can't he just be fired?' she asked."
Mariah went on to tell him what she'd explained to the girl.
Connor tried hard to listen and get his mind above his belt.
What in hell was he thinking? Mariah Stavig hated him! He'd
broken up her marriage. She despised what he did for a living and was
cooperating now only reluctantly, because of a sense of duty and a knowledge of
the law. He hated to imagine how she'd react if she knew how intensely he was
aware of her.
"Okay," he said finally. "I'll be talking to
her again this evening. We'll see whether she's forgotten any of her story, or
decides to embellish it a little."
"Do you think she's lying?" Mariah asked.
"At the moment, I have no idea," Connor admitted.
"Has she, um, been examined by a doctor yet?" She
sounded timid. "I know it's probably not any of my business, but…"
"No, it's okay," he said. "Yeah, she had the
works. Looks like she did lose her virginity in the past few days. No bruising
or obvious signs that force was used. It was probably too long ago to recover
DNA, assuming a condom wasn't used."
"She was afraid of being pregnant."
"She's thirteen years old," he said bluntly.
"When I asked whether he might not have put on a condom before they had
intercourse, she stared at me with complete blankness. In theory she knows what
one is. Unless it was neon-green, I'm not convinced she'd have noticed if he
put one on quickly, with his back to her."
The distaste and even embarrassment on Mariah's face might
have been comical, under other circumstances. "She was probably trying not
to … look." She was being very careful to keep her gaze fixed on his face,
too.
A fact that stirred him uncomfortably.
Frowning, he said, "Exactly." Looking at the bank
of windows, he made himself think about Tracy Mitchell, not the prim teacher
behind the desk. "I need to start talking to kids. Hard to do without
lighting a bonfire of rumors."
"Impossible, I imagine." Mariah looked
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